


The Last Mountain

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, Don't copy to another site, Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Sam Winchester, Post-Season/Series 14, SPN J2 Secret Santa, Stanford University, Unrealistic Series of Events, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 10:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17160263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: It took Dean a few weeks to realize what was really going on with his brother. Once he did, it took him another week to work out how he felt about the revelation.





	The Last Mountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runedgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runedgirl/gifts).



> For runedgirl… It was my pleasure to write this for you! Especially since I felt like your prompts could have been mine, too :) It’s a little bit of a headcanon I’ve always had, despite all the reasons it probably could never happen, so I had to handwave a few details to make it work. I tried to work in a couple of your prompts (LOL I'm sure you'll find them!) and as many of your likes as I could—trust me, I wish I had time to add even more because I love this idea so much. Merry Christmas, my friend!

Dean finds the diploma frame in a secondhand shop in Kalamazoo, Michigan while he’s working the case of a potentially cursed antique dagger.

It sounded like an interesting hunt, and Dean jumped at the chance to investigate solo while Sam was busy, but the longer he stayed in town, the more obvious it became that there was nothing special or cursed about the dagger. His fake badge won’t do any good; this might actually be a case for the real police.

Dean’s walking out of the shop (where the surprisingly knowledgeable owner has just confirmed that the supposedly antique knife is really just a well made knockoff) when he spots the frame sitting on top of a table. Like everything else in the shop, it’s a little dusty, yet Dean sees the brushed gold frame underneath, crimson mat with two empty spaces sitting behind streaked glass. Dean knows exactly what this frame is for and he buys it with the cash he saved by spending last night in the Impala instead of a motel.

On his way back to Lebanon, Dean stops at a Walgreens and buys a roll of shiny, navy blue paper and an obnoxiously big gold bow. All it takes is a smile to convince the cashier to help him wrap the frame while she’s on break.

Back on the road and counting down the miles ‘til he’s home, Dean thinks about the last eight months. About Sam, Cas, and Jack, and the way things were changing. It started when they brought the survivors of the apocalypse realm back through the rift and into this reality. Some of those men and women ‘retired’ to an angel and apocalypse-free existence, happy to get as far away from the Winchesters as they could, but more than a few wanted to continue the only fight they’d ever known, taking up hunting in this bright, new (and wifi-enabled) world.

With so many new faces around the bunker, the Winchesters’ lives were bound to be disrupted. It wasn’t all bad—all that activity kept things interesting and there were more than enough hunters to handle the work. Sam seemed happy with the shift, too. Dean saw that contented smile, the one he’d missed for so many years, on his brother’s face more and more these days.

In the midst of all that activity, it took Dean a few weeks to realize what was really going on with his brother. Once he did, it took him another week to work out how he felt about the whole thing.

It started with books. Thick, shiny books sitting out on Sam’s favorite table in the library, sometimes three or four in a pile. The corners were a little dented, so they were probably secondhand acquisitions, but they were nothing like the old, yellowed books that made up the bulk of the bunker’s library. They didn’t look like the type of book a person cracked open for fun, either: too many words in small, black print, and not enough pictures.

After that, Dean noticed Sam spending more and more time on his computer. Which wasn’t that unusual, of course—the damn nerd—though from what Dean could see when he walked by, Sam wasn’t working on a case and he wasn’t watching porn. (Dean checked.) Sam was reading more, typing more, and staying up later than Dean almost every night. For a while, he decided to give Sam his space, but when Dean woke up one morning and found Sam asleep at the table, books and papers spread out under his elbows, he couldn’t help being a little concerned.

The world, for once, wasn’t ending, so what the hell was going on?

At that point, Dean started to wonder if maybe having all these new hunters relying on them was taking too much of a toll on Sam. If, in a way, he felt responsible. Sam had truly stepped into his role as one of the Men of Letters—he researched and delegated, used everything at his disposal to help them, and Dean was...okay with it. Not all the time, but the drive in his blood he thought would never die has shifted to a lower gear.

And then, one day, Dean caught a glimpse of something familiar on Sam’s laptop before he closed the screen. A flash of colors and a logo he would know anywhere because the sight of it used to throw him into a rage.

The pieces fell into place after that.

Sam was taking online courses through Stanford. He wanted to _graduate_.

When he thought back, Dean realized it was Charlie—their Charlie—who planted the thought in Sam’s head back when she coolly admitted to accessing Sam’s college records while she was checking into them. Once, a few years later, she’d even flat-out asked Sam why he’d never finished despite only needing a handful of course credits. Dean had overheard Sam respond that he never thought he’d get the chance to go back before he and Charlie moved on and started talking about the system upgrade they were planning for the bunker.

Instead of confronting Sam then and there when he figured it out, Dean pretended to be none the wiser. He spent hours considering what Sam was doing, swinging between confusion and bitterness like a silent pendulum. Then, one night while Dean was lying in his bed—alone since Sam was in the middle of a silent study session in the library—turning everything over in his head one more time, it finally struck him.

This was _good_. Really good.

Dean knew Sam regretted not finishing his senior year. Not that Sam could have gone back after Jessica’s death. He mentioned it from time to time: when he felt nostalgic, when he was drunk, when a case took them onto a college campus. Back in those days, Dean figured it was nothing more than a fantasy, and as the years and miles wore on, it came up less and less. Hell, Dean never thought the two of them would live past thirty-five, let alone come to a place and time where finishing college was possible for Sam.

Yet here they are with something like a home, something _more_ than a simple family, and, for once, a future to look forward to.

Dean wasn’t one hundred percent sure how online classes worked (and he had absolutely no idea how Sam was paying for them—something else Charlie set up, perhaps, or maybe Sam had a few more secrets he was keeping from Dean), but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help Sam out with the little things. Covertly, of course. Couldn’t have Sammy knowing his big brother was on to him.

Sam’s preferred spot in the library became a sacred space; no one else was allowed to use that end of the table. Dean kept it clear of anyone else’s books, plates, or bottles so that Sam had one less thing to worry about. When Sam was sitting there, studying or typing, Dean brewed a fresh pot of coffee in case he needed the jolt. Though, sometimes, when he saw stress building up between Sam’s brows, Dean would pester him until he agreed to pack it in and rest for the night.

Dean wasn’t an idiot—at some point, Sam obviously knew that he was busted, yet he went along with it anyway, happy to let Dean carry a bit more of the weight of the job so that he could focus. He was quick to hide his smile when Dean brought home healthy take-out for a change or used headphones in the library instead of blasting his music and distracting Sam.

Whenever a case came up and he knew Sam was swamped with coursework, Dean delegated to other hunters. He did more than his usual share of the research (which sucked, but it was worth it to see Sam’s expressions when he nailed an assignment), and kept people out of Sam’s hair unless it was an emergency. The only exceptions were Castiel and Jack; family dinners took precedence when all four of them were in the bunker together.

They didn’t really _talk_ about what Sam was doing, not directly. Cas and Jack...well, Dean figured they just hadn’t worked it out. It was Sam’s secret to reveal, not Dean’s, and it remained unspoken, yet not fragile. Dean worried that if he acknowledged what was going on, things would change too much, too quickly.

They still went on hunts together. A day would come when Dean would look at Sam and just _know_ he wanted a case to lose himself in. Whether he missed the rhythm of the job or needed a distraction in between courses or assignments, Dean never argued with the impulse. Hours later, they’d be in the Impala, roaring out of Lebanon and heading towards whatever hunt Dean managed to find. Those jobs were a throwback to the way things used to be: the open road, a case of beer at the end of the day, and a cheesy motel alongside the highway. They’d get a room with two queens and only use one of the beds, taking the rare opportunity to reconnect away from the bunker. 

Once the case wrapped up and the Winchesters had taken care of whatever needed to be salted, burned, or exorcised, Sam and Dean would find a hole-in-the-wall diner or shoot pool at a roadhouse to earn themselves a few hundred bucks. Just like the old days, only better because somewhere along the line over the last fifteen years, they’d grown into themselves. Saving the world more than once made things like guilt, shame, and remorse seem trivial.

Whenever they made it back to the bunker, the tension in Dean’s chest would be gone and Sam wouldn’t hold his shoulders so stiffly. He’d drop his bags in his room before grabbing his computer and setting up in the library again while Dean took care of anything they’d missed. If Cas or Jack were home, they’d all sit around with pizza (Jack’s favorite) and swap stories.

It was all part of their new routine, so different from the way Sam and Dean used to crash between hunts. The years have worn down their sharp edges. Now, as Dean makes his way back to Lebanon from Kalamazoo, he finds himself stepping hard on the gas, eager to get home. 

The frame is sitting wrapped in the backseat. If he gives it to Sam now, if he acknowledges the work Sam has put in over the last few months, the changes Dean was so afraid of become permanent. But maybe he’s ready for that after all. The way things have been going...they’re good. Sam’s almost finished—Dean has been able to feel the anticipation building—and Dean needs to show him that no matter what, he’s okay with whatever comes next.

As he hits the Iowa state line, Dean lets the Impala’s engine roar. If he pushes, he can be home before daybreak, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to be there when Sam wakes up.

~~~

It’s quiet and still in the bunker as Dean makes his way down the stairs. No one’s waiting for him in the control room or hanging around the library to ask about a case. Thanks to a text, Dean knows that Jack and Cas won’t be back for a few more days, meaning he and Sam may have the place to themselves for the first time in more than a month.

“Honey, I’m home,” he mutters to himself as he drops his bag on one of the library chairs. The frame he treats with more care, setting it on the table with the bow facing up.

That’s when Sam steps into the room holding two cups of still-steaming coffee, his mouth open in the middle of a yawn. “Thought I heard you come in,” he says through the tail end of his yawn. “You made good time.”

He’s wearing the plaid robe Dean gave him last Christmas—something inexpensive from one of the outlet stores, yet Sam wears it all the time around the bunker—over a gray T-shirt and those soft black pants that drive Dean crazy. The ones that hang low on his hips and leave very little to the imagination. Dean doesn’t waste brain cells trying to figure out if Sam’s outfit is a coincidence or a conspiracy; all that matters is that he looks damn good to Dean after three and a half days away.

He reaches across the table and takes one of the mugs, quickly glancing around the room, while treating himself to a hot sip of the dark roast Sam prefers these days. “Quiet morning,” he says.

Sam watches him over the rim of his own mug. “Yeah, Devin and Carol passed through yesterday on their way down to Texas, but I haven’t seen anyone since. Kalamazoo was a bust then, huh?”

“Nothin’ but a hoax and a waste of gas money.”

“You didn’t come home empty handed, though,” Sam points out, eyeing the present on the table. He looks up at Dean and grins. “I know it’s not my birthday.”

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head and hopes Sam doesn’t notice the flush on his cheeks. He’s suddenly nervous despite running this moment over and over in his head while he was on the road. “Figured we could celebrate something else.”

Surprise flickers in Sam’s eyes before they’re shuttered. “Dean—“

“Go ahead and open it,” Dean rushes to say before he can change his mind.

Sam’s puzzled at his insistence, but he sets his coffee down on the table and reaches for the package. He doesn’t draw it out—Dean’s nerves couldn’t handle that—yet he’s careful when he takes the bow off and places it to the side. Instead of ripping the paper, he undoes the tape with his fingers, and there’s a soft grin on his face that Dean can’t quite place. Dean’s not usually one for presenting gifts like this—newspaper wrapping works just fine for him. Maybe Sam’s picked up on the significance of the shiny blue paper, the barely crumpled bow.

When the frame is revealed, Sam is silent. Dean watches him run his hands over the wood, run his fingers across the glass. The girl at Walgreens had cleaned it for him, telling Dean that “it was lame” to wrap a dirty present. He’s grateful for her insistence now, tracking the movement of Sam’s hands as he touches his gift.

The silence is too much for Dean. “It’s for—“

“I know,” Sam says before he can blurt it out.

“I figured you could—“

“Dean, I know.” Sam looks up, still smiling, and there’s a brightness in his eyes that Dean doesn’t call him on despite his big brother instinct telling him to crack a joke about _chick flick moments_.

And then, Sam says, “I turned in my last assignment two days ago.”

For a few seconds, Dean doesn’t know how to react. He knew Sam was close to the finish line; he never guessed it could all be wrapped up this soon.

“So that means…”

“I’ll officially be a college graduate by Christmas,” Sam finishes for him, leaving Dean with a stupefied expression and a strange swirling in his stomach.

_College._

So many mixed emotions wrapped up in that word for both of them. Stanford was where Sam met Jessica and it was where he lost her, too. Dean knows without a doubt that Sam never would have been able to set foot on that campus again—the online courses gave him the necessary detachment. To this day, for Dean, the word still reminds him of Sam leaving him behind. Breaking up their family. But now, maybe, they can start over and leave all of that in the past.

Dean coughs away the emotions caught in his throat. “You’ll get a diploma, right?” He asks, nodding towards the frame with its two empty spaces.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam laughs. “They’ll send it to me, don’t worry.”

“Good.”

It’s out there now, everything that’s gone unspoken for so long, and it might just be Dean’s imagination (or exhaustion) playing tricks with his senses, but the space between them feels charged. Hotter and heavier than it was before. Not exactly the reaction he imagined when he gave Sam the frame, but certain parts of Dean’s anatomy are definitely on board.

“Know what else we can do to celebrate?” Sam asks, stepping around to Dean’s side of the table until Dean’s personal space is just a memory, the two of them pressed close in the cavernous room. Like this, Dean can smell the coffee on Sam’s breath, the soap he used to wash his face, the detergent on his clothes.

Sam’s lips are right there and when they kiss, that’s when Dean really feels like he’s back home. Years of practice have made kissing almost effortless, yet Dean’s still surprised by how good it makes him feel. Sam’s mouth on top of his, the texture he knows better than the back of his own hand.

It’s pure instinct and muscle memory that has Dean reaching out and wrapping his arm around Sam’s back. He’s melting into the kiss—slow, morning makeout sessions are seriously underrated, in Dean’s opinion—and letting the heat build at a steady pace. Sam’s hand slips under Dean’s shirt and nimbly undoes the button of his jeans. Dean sucks in a breath, and not solely from feeling the heat of Sam’s skin against his bare torso. The bunker may be their home, but unexpected visitors have a tendency to appear at the most inconvenient times.

“Anyone could walk in, Sammy,” Dean whispers urgently, though his voice shakes as Sam’s fingers skate along his zipper.

Sam’s voice is little more than a brush of air against the shell of Dean’s ear. “We’re all alone here, Dean. Unless you’re too tired from the drive?” 

The challenge hits Dean like a spike; he knows what Sam’s trying to do and reacts anyway. “Never too tired to take what you’re giving,” he growls, “don’t worry.”

Sam’s grin is edged with fierce want, eyes morning-bright and staring at Dean with passionate intent. “And if I want to give it to you right here, against this table?”

Dean can’t breathe for a second and Sam, the jerk, uses the lapse to pull Dean’s pants open at the zipper. It’s rushed, and Dean’s pulse is pounding, but his cock is getting hard under Sam’s hand. Just the idea of having sex out here in the open sends his arousal through the roof. No one’s in the bunker besides the two of them, but the thought of someone catching them—of Cas or another hunter walking into the library and witnessing Sam’s ability to break Dean down into nothing but a desperate, horny mess—is enough to leave Dean gasping against Sam’s lips.

“ _Yes_ ,” is all that comes out when Dean tries to respond, undone by the way Sam’s rocking against his hip. There’s a brief fumble as Sam pushes Dean’s boxers and jeans down around his thighs, his other hand reaching to stroke Dean’s cock as it’s exposed. 

His touch feels so damn good after three days of getting nothing on the road. Before that, there was always something, or someone, getting in their way: Sam’s coursework, research for their own cases or helping out one of the apocalypse survivors-turned-hunters. Dean’s been craving this, their connection, and now that he’s got it back, he silently promises to never let it go so long again. They both need this—Sam as much as Dean—and they learned long ago that denying the way they felt about one another could be catastrophic.

“We’re gonna do this all day, Dean,” Sam tells him, grinding against him like they’re eager teenagers with nowhere to go. “It’s been too damn long.”

Those soft knit pants Sam is wearing are killing Dean. He can feel them brushing the sensitive skin of his thighs each time Sam rocks forward. They barely conceal how hard Sam is; Dean can feel every inch of Sam’s cock through the thin fabric. It gets more damp with each thrust, one or both of them leaking precome to make the friction more bearable.

Dean wants Sam to come in his pants, wants Sam to use his body to get off at the same time he’s literally got Dean’s pleasure in the palm of his hand. Sam doesn’t need direction—he’s learned to read Dean like one of his textbooks, every hitch of his breath and flicker in his eyes telling him how close Dean is. It used to freak him out, how little he could hide from his brother, but Dean’s come to realize that there’s no one else he trusts to possess that knowledge, no one else who’d put it to such good use.

And that knowledge goes both ways. Dean knows what it does to Sam to see him like this. Pliant and eager to take what Sam’s giving. He enjoys the hell out of every minute, don’t get him wrong, but there’s a pleasure that goes beyond coming when he gets to see Sam react the way he does when Dean puts himself in Sam’s hands.

Sam is panting against Dean’s lips, trying to kiss him in between strokes. It’s frantic, uncoordinated, and would probably look ridiculous if someone could see them right now, rutting against one another, but Dean doesn’t care anymore. He tips over the edge when Sam twists his hand just right on the downstroke, coming with a groan and closing his eyes as he spills himself all over Sam’s palm.

Though euphoria is still sparking throughout his body, Dean’s aware enough to pull Sam even closer, listening to him curse and moan as he grinds against Dean’s thigh. The noises are almost enough to drag out the pleasure of Dean’s orgasm—he loves hearing Sam get loud during sex—and he lets himself fully appreciate the feeling of Sam getting off in his arms.

Afterwards, they barely move apart to catch their breath.

“Round two’s gonna have to wait, Sammy,” Dean says around a yawn. “I _did_ drive all night.”

Sam sighs and rubs his chin against Dean’s shoulder before admitting, “I might have gotten up a little early to wait for you.”

Dean grins as he pulls his pants up far enough that he can walk, keeping a drowsy, post-orgasm Sam tucked close against his side. “Your bed or mine?”

“Been sleeping in yours since you left,” Sam tells him, and Dean starts heading down the hall towards his room.

Dean wonders now, as a sense of comfort and rightness surrounds him, what he was so worried about. He and Sam are more in sync then ever. Degree from Stanford or not, Sam isn’t going anywhere. Perhaps things will change—they might be able to help more, live comfortably now that Sam’s gone legit—but some things in their crazy, messed up world are a constant.

A few minutes later, once they’ve cleaned up and are stretched out beside one another in Dean’s bed, both of them floating between awake and asleep, Dean starts to laugh, low and amused.

“What’s so funny?” Sam mumbles, half of his face pressed against the pillow he brought from his own bed.

“Just thinking about how you must’ve graduated with honors.”

Sam opens one eye and looks over. “I don’t know about that. Why?”

Dean grins. “Because you always _come loudly_ when you’re with me…”

It takes a few seconds for Sam to groan, “Shut up, Dean,” and slap Dean gently on his stomach.

Dean falls asleep still smiling, watching Sam do the same.

 

FIN


End file.
